Boot camp for the bonus years

This is an archaic blog, written a few years ago when I turned 75. In which I bully myself into making 12 lifestyle changes in a single year, hoping to increase my health and happiness in old age and reduce my chances of getting dementia. This is my personal boot camp for the extra years—the bonus years that we never expected or desired. The years of ageing and old age.

Four unidentified marching girls have their boots whitened by an unidentified man, 1956. National Library Archives.

I've got my very own rest home inside my skull, with at least five residents. When I try to Think with a capital T about how to prepare for growing old, their voices drown me out. Jabber jabber jabber!

Depressa: It's just luck. You can't do anything about it.Smugilla: You don't need to do a thing—you're perfect! Depressa: You're gonna die anyway so what's the point?Innocent Bystander: She doesn't look that old.

Where is the wise part of me? Does she even exist? Oh there you are, Menerva—speak up, why don't you?

Smugilla: You are so hot you could give advice to everyone else on how to stay young forever. Write a How To book! You'll be famous! You'll make millions! You'll be on Oprah!Innocent Bystander: You're only as young as you feel. Menerva: I don't think she's trying to solve a problem exactly.Innocent Bystander: Just run along to the plastic surgeon. Or try homeopathy.

Hey, there's a guy in there! Great, a fixer-upper.

Sergeant Major: Quit that squabbling. What's the problem?Menerva: She doesn't know what to think.Sergeant Major: Too much thinking does you no good. Time for action.Smugilla: She doesn't need any help from you, that's for sure! She's an expert grower-older. Depressa: Yeah, right! Miminerva: She does need help. We all do.

And that's when the Sergeant Major proposed a boot camp. One goal per month for the year, and then I'm done. Done like a dinner. No longer undone.